


Nepenthe

by darkwood



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: All That Remains, F/M, Feels, Post All That Remains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:55:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwood/pseuds/darkwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nepenthe (noun):</p>
<p>1. a drug or drink, or the plant yielding it, mentioned by ancient writers as having the power to bring forgetfulness of sorrow or trouble.</p>
<p>2. anything inducing a pleasurable sensation of forgetfulness, especially of sorrow or trouble. </p>
<p>What if Fenris walked right on out of Kirkwall after that one night, thinking he was taking the high road and preventing Worse Things from happening? If he wasn't there when All that Remains happened, how does Hawke manage her grief?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm setting this up to be dual-posted on tumblr, which will have the voice-post versions of these chapters. The chapters will be short-ish because of that, can't have anything too-huge. 
> 
> This chapter is [here](http://darkwoodwrites.tumblr.com/post/35458994102/).

         Gamlen had gone to collect ‘the body’. No matter how many times he called it ‘Leandra’, _it_ just wasn’t her mother. The minute the shaking step had turned the body around, Melisare’s heart had broken worse than the night when Fenris had walked out without looking back. There were no words for what had been done, and everything that happened after was lost in a haze. She knew that somehow she’d returned to the estate, and that someone had gotten her out of her armor. She knew her uncle had come to find news, and she could vaguely remember his harsh, bitter words about mages and magic, but it was a dim memory in which everything sounded as though it was being muffled by cotton.

         There had been a body to collect, though. Gamlen had done that, and once it was collected, there was a service held at the Chantry. Lady Amell was a noble of Kirkwall, and thus she was afforded her due. Melisare dressed and was escorted by someone to the Chantry for the service. Possibly by Gamlen, as he was there beside her, but it could just as easily have been Varric or one of her other real friends.

         The Grand Cleric gave some sermon, mentioning things in soothing, round tones that carried to the pews. Beside her, Gamlen actually seemed taken by some emotion beyond fear, and somewhere behind them someone was crying.

         All Melisare could think of was how _tired_ she was, but she would never sleep again. Every time she closed her eyes she saw _that body_ wearing her mother’s face. Knowing that was waiting kept her vigilant against sleep. She couldn’t bear to see the jerky lurch of its step as it turned and faltered towards her, so she kept her eyes open. She bent down onto the kneeler to last out the sermon, and trained her eyes on the smooth tile beyond the front pew she was in. She could tell when the sermon ended by how quiet everything got. The Grand Cleric’s voice said something final, and there was shifting of feet.

         But Melisare remained still. She had no wish to see the faces of those that were around her. She didn’t want to read the sadness of other people, she didn’t want to shake hands and accept sorrowful embraces from those she didn’t know and who didn’t know her out of necessity.

         She didn’t know how long she knelt in the Chantry beside Gamlen, but she could feel her uncle shifting beside her. It was awkward, being with him. As uncomfortable as it had been living under the same roof, there had been something to unite them… then. There had been a reason to call each other family. Now they could not even look at one another, or at the very least Melisare could not bear to look at him. She knew what she would see, and she did not want to be reminded of her mother’s features. Rather than face her uncle, she reached over to touch his arm. He needn’t stay. Leandra had been the only thing keeping them together after Carver, and now…

         Gamlen’s gruff voice muttered something, but Melisare couldn’t hear his words. All she heard every time he opened his mouth was snatches of the damning curses he’d said about her magic and the blame he heaped on her –  blame that she wore all on her own. He rose slowly, no doubt stiff from all the kneeling, and moved away. Melisare could _feel_ him leave.

         Melisare never wanted to move. She tightened her hands and lowered her forehead to her clasped fists. She shut her eyes, willing what was behind them to remain dark for once, and tried to close out the world. So much was gone, so many had left her.

         Passing into the Fade was natural to her, the sort of thing that came as second nature since the first time she’d done it. It was sort of like conjuring fire when she was cold. It just _happened_ , and she’d never questioned it.

         Now she found she hated it. She curled up beneath a twist of the Fade’s present greenery and willed it to all to pass away.


	2. Chapter 2

         “Hawke.”

         Jarring awake at the sound of her name being called, Melisare’s limbs betrayed her and she pitched sideways from her spot on the padded kneeler. Hours had passed and her body was aware of it if her mind had been otherwise occupied. A strong hand caught her arm, keeping her from falling.

         Things slowly came into focus. The Chantry felt empty, and that made Melisare feel guilty that she was still there so late. A hand on her back joined the hand on her arm, steadying her. She looked up, and found that it was Sebastian that was kneeling beside her. Even in the darkness that night cast on the Chantry, the armor that he wore gleamed. _Merril was right_ , Melisare thought as she looked at him, _his armor **is**_ _shiny._ Melisare choked back the snort that threatened at her mind’s ill-timed humor. Certainly now was not the time to make jokes.

         “It’s a rather odd hour for you to be in the Chantry, Hawke,” Sebastian said. He didn’t even bother to keep his voice down.

         “I was…” Melisare righted herself with his help, finding her way up into the bench behind them. “What time is it?”

         Sebastian sat beside her, staring at the image of Andraste that stood over the chancel. “Just after ten bells.”

         “Maker’s-” Melisare winced, catching herself from the uttered curse before she got the whole word out, but only just barely. It wouldn’t do to blaspheme the name of the Maker in His own house.

         A chuckle came out of Sebastian.

         Confused, she looked over at him, for the first time realizing that she had to look _up_ to see him. “What?”

         “I’m sorry, it’s just that I didn’t expect you to cut yourself off. You never have before.”

         “I don’t normally spend this much time in the Chantry.”

         “That is true.”

         It was quiet between them for a moment. In the silence, cold crept in to Melisare, dispelling the ghost of a smile that haunted her lips.

         “You know, Hawke, if you ever want to talk…” He left the end of the sentence open in obvious invitation.

         Rather than look at him and see the face of too many sympathetic Chantry sisters and mothers, Melisare turned her eyes up to the image of Andraste, preferring the smooth uncaring face there. “Will you hear my sins, then, Sebastian?” she asked.

         “I did not mean to presume,” Sebastian said. His voice was much softer, as though he somehow sensed his misstep. “Only to offer. There are many who find comfort in having an ear for their troubles.”

         The offer was a kind one, but Melisare’s throat closed up at the suggestion he made, and her stomach rolled dangerously. There was too much. Melisare rose from her seat, unable to look at Sebastian. Managing to keep her tongue still, she headed away from him, towards the stairs and the narthex.

         The Chantry was dark at that hour. Melisare thought it was a blessing. There were none of the faithful about – no Sisters or Mothers, no repenting members of the congregation. Without the low voices, the Chantry was quiet except for the noise of her own footsteps and the echoey hiss of the incense burning in the braziers. This late, with the doors long shut, the incense was thick in the air, making it taste like flowers. The smell was almost overpowering, like on a festival day.

         If she closed her eyes, Melisare could picture the Chantry in Lothering. Leandra had been fond of the Revered Mother there, and they often went to services. The older woman had been tolerant of the family, and for the Mother’s silence, none of the Hawke mages carried a staff openly in sight of the Chantry. It had been a silly ruse, but an effective one. And the ruse had allowed Leandra to attend services. Leandra had always been fond of the Chantry. She said it was soothing, said that it-

         Melisare clamped viciously down on that thought, stomping her foot down on the stair as she headed down. Leandra said nothing, anymore, and Melisare wanted nothing more than to seep into the shadows. A sick, hurt part of her wanted to cease to be, because if she could do that then there wouldn’t be any pain.

         “I’m here if you need me.”

         Her step faltered as Sebastian’s words echoed down to reach her. He sounded loud in the quiet. She didn’t turn, hunching her shoulders and hurrying for the exit.


	3. On the Road      [Fenris]

         It was strange to be traveling again. For almost four years he had been in Kirkwall with a consistent roof over his head. It did not matter that there were holes in it. It did not matter that there were rats in the cellar and broken bottles strewn about. That mansion had been the longest constant thing in his life that he could remember, and fear had driven him from it.

         What was worse was that it was not fear of Danarius that sent him from it, but fear of disappointment… fear of… himself.

         Closing his eyes against that knowledge, Fenris’ mind was assaulted. His once again departed memories were such a disappointment that it staggered him. In the place of the memories he wished for rushed the memories he had. Memories of Tevinter and the pleasure he’d been forced to give Danarius and Hadriana. All things he’d rather forget, but couldn’t. The tremble of Hawke beneath him was laced through those thoughts, a sweet counterpoint to what he hated. She was precious and he burned for her touch _almost_ more than he burned with the thoughts he hated.

         The memories were disturbing, but more than that, Hawke was disturbing. She got close, almost like some sneak-thief, and he was spooked when he realized just how close she’d become and how unguarded he was with her. His first thought once he’d awoken was that whatever god or gods were out there, they were cruel. The glimpses that ran through his mind were so vivid that when he closed his eyes he could almost see the colors still. And then there was no more than the amber glow of Hawke’s bedchamber and the maroon of the curtains brushed gold with the light of the fire. She was settled against him, cheek pillowed to his chest, and the first thought he had was that she looked too young to be laying naked in a room with a man like him. The second was that she should not be bruised. The bruises on her at once shamed him and called to mind the passion of the hours before in a way that sent a shock of desire through him. It rushed the length of him like the shiver that nearby magic caused in his lyrium.

         Fenris had struggled with the urge to roll her over and-

         This sort of desire could not be healthy, though his mind supplied that he would suffer no worse for it. His skin often hurt, that was not new. What was new were these vague memories that had come to him. And yet a part of him – the same part that had control of his hands, guiding her leg up over his and delighted at the soft feeling of her skin against his – knew that he could take back those memories with her here, just like this. As often as he dared he could sink into her, feel her skin against his and take back what left him.

         Hawke had shifted trustingly against him, moving closer to his warmth.

         If the bruises shamed him, the thought of _taking_ from Hawke like that lodged guilt so firmly into him it may as well have been a sword to the ribcage. He closed his eyes, and he could see what would happen. She would give and he would take, just as before it had been taken from him. She would be willing, and he would be unable to restrain himself, and she would suffer so much more than bruises.

         She deserved more than that. She deserved what she was offering to be given back to her. She deserved to be loved, to be accepted, and… And not to be mauled by the animal that often had problems seeing her as more than just another mage.

         Fenris stopped, briefly, at the mansion before he left. He’d gathered the things he had there, slung them over his back, and headed out of Kirkwall before midday.

         He couldn’t bring himself to leave Sundermount, though. This was far enough, he couldn’t hurt her here. He could be certain he would never run into her. She would not be looking for him here, and though she was light on her feet, there was nothing particularly stealthy about a woman who carried a six foot staff and was attended by a mabari.

         Fenris tried to ignore that he had only left the city. He definitely ignored that he was lingering, just in case.


End file.
